Every home has a First Citizen.
We have two.
Both have four legs.
Years ago, I was tricked by my kids, masterminded by their mother.
They all wanted a pet. My standard reply was, “Either a pet or me. Decide.”
They said, “Pet.”
Trying to make it difficult for them, I said, “Fine. Make a presentation on breed options. And a manual on pet care.”
Seven minutes later, they had a laptop in one hand and a tiny pet in the other.
That’s how Mr T entered our home and became the First Citizen.
Three years later, I was tricked again.
Ms G was brought home to give Mr T some company.
Apparently, one First Citizen wasn’t enough.
The house is now owned by them.
They rule it.
All rights. Zero responsibility.
We have a bed.
They have a bed and our bed.
We exchange a lazy “good morning” with each other.
They receive state-level greetings.
Visitors are admitted only after their due diligence and approval.
I go to a humble neighbourhood salon.
Their spa bills are converted into EMIs.
If I have a bad day, I’m told, “You will be fine.”
If they have a bad day, the entire household is questioned:
“Who upset them?”
Pouncing on me while I’m snoring is just one of their cute habits.
Barking at peak volume when I’m on a conference call is another.
Even my recliner is a shared space.
I can occupy it if it’s empty.
If either decides to jump in, the Second Citizen must vacate.
Or squeeze.
OTR Footnotes:
Just hoping that T&G don’t read this exposé
Someone must tell them that etiquette demands they not sleep on our bed. Definitely not diagonally.
A silent coup happened in our house and hearts. I just didn’t realise when.
Last Sip:
There is no known scientific explanation for why the neighbour starts drilling exactly when you decide to nap.
